


L'éducation sexuelle

by FLWhite



Series: mes fils stupides [6]
Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: (passing) reference to (real) crimes, BDSM, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Fluff and Crack, La bite, M/M, Mostly Crack, Name-Calling, Post-Canon, Rope Bondage, Sex Clubs, Sex Shop, Sex Toys, Some hurt/comfort, Spanking, allusions to erotic tickling, allusions to golden showers, allusions to rimjobs, allusions to wax play, been spending most my life living in a versatile paradise, blasphemous banter, fraternité, improvised gags, learn to Google, literal bodice ripping, massive silliness, more like juvenile and comedic attempts at BDSM, reference to mental illness, rigoler, the perils (?) of not researching words you do not know, university!elu, when parallel universes collide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-11-14 13:46:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18053633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FLWhite/pseuds/FLWhite
Summary: Two school years after the events of SKAM France S3, our heroes are living together while Lucas attends university and Eliott, art school. On the uneventful day just before winter holidays begin, Lucas finds an interesting flyer for something called a "munch" at an odd-sounding gay club. There, he, Eliott, and the boy-squad meet some new international—shall we say—friends...But first, there's one more secret he and Eliott have yet to share with each other.





	1. Dirty babe

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoy a chunky blend of BDSM and LOLs as much as I do. 
> 
> [ @ryuujitsu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuujitsu/pseuds/zetaophiuchi) est ma muse et mon diable <3
> 
> Shameless self-promotion: check out my [Tumblr](http://xiangyu.tumblr.com). And check out my other SKAMFr fics!

  1. **Dirty babe**



**December 22| Thursday, 11:16**

The last day before break is pretty shit so far. The morning is frigid. He only realized that he'd never pushed the "cook" button on the electric kettle after he'd already spent five minutes pouring the water in it over his and Eliott's coffees. Of course Eliott had just laughed and thanked him with a kiss, but he'd already been late and didn't get to drink any of the new batch. Heavy rain revealed a crack he didn't know existed in his poncho's hood.

He punctures three gels in a row in Microbio lab and Imane confiscates his pipette, looks at him like she's going to puncture _him_ if he wastes any more of the samples. "I can't believe I let you talk me into partnering you when I had to teach you the difference between anaerobic and aerobic back in _première_ ," she hisses when he protests.

So Lucas lets himself play a round or three of ColorPing while hiding in a bathroom stall until lab is over. Even that doesn't go well. As his screen fills with colored balls that simultaneously turn into tiny skulls and fizzle to black, he looks up.

Amidst the scribbled penises and _suce-moi_ s, there's a flyer printed on pink paper, with old-fashioned detachable slips of paper across its bottom. All but two have been torn off already. Across the top of the flyer soars a beefy-looking pegasus in a leather harness, carrying a rainbow in its mouth. The photocopy is a vintage level of bad, so Lucas can't quite tell, but it looks like the rainbow has a face. The face is blushing.

"Club Pégase New Year's Eve Munch & Dance, 10 Rue Dupetit-Thouars," he reads, turning his face sideways to squint at the tiny lettering on the remaining slips. "Theme: Fraternité International. Cover 1€." Lucas raises his eyebrows at the pegasus. What the fuck is a munch? But 1€ is a damn fine deal, and he's pretty sure that the place Yann had wanted to go to for the actual countdown was somewhere close by in the Marais. He openes their group Whatsapp and thumbs through it to make sure.

Plus, Arthur and Basile had requested— _demanded_ \--that he take them to an " _nice_ gay club" the next time they were back in Paris on break from Marseille. That one foam party at the place Mika loves had been a little too much for them. "Too much dick," Basile had murmured, looking a bit green, possibly more from the very generous pours of shitty tequila than anything else. Then Arthur had dissed the chill pop 'n' pop bar that Lucas and Eliott sometimes treat themselves to as "not gay enough," and Basile had agreed, nodding solemnly, while Yann rolled his eyes and drank deeply of his pint: "Insufficient dick."

Even now he sees the most recent iteration of their plea, this one entirely in emoji, from Sunday night: three eggplants, one dancing man, one set of toasting beers, one OK sign, one thumbs-up. Yann had replied to it with an entire line of eye-rolls. The exchange makes him chuckle, but he's also a little concerned that on one of these expeditions he's going to turn around and find Basile and Arthur making out on the dance floor. Then again, it's been getting harder and harder, what with Yann doing co-op placements like a madman over summers and winters, to have the foursome reunited. And he's exposed the guys to plenty of surprise snogs with Eliott. And he's still never lived down what they did to the mural in the lyceé _foyer_.

With a little grin, he rips one of the slips free.

 **December 22|** **Thursday, 19:42**

At the moment they're in the same place again, every day they've spent together in this apartment barely bigger than a refrigerator box, Eliott holds Lucas's face between both palms and kisses him. Sometimes it's a series of small pecks ending with a mischievous bit of tongue; sometimes it's heady enough that they end up not eating dinner until close to midnight. Sometimes, when it's not been a good day and Eliott can't quite summon the usual smile that occupies his entire face, it's Lucas who cups Eliott's hands, puts them on his own cheeks, and places his lips as tenderly as a breath against Eliott's. And then they get takeout and go to bed early.

Tonight is a heady night, though. A pot of something smelling of chilis and coconut is gently bubbling over a small flame, and a cooker full of jasmine rice has just dinged its triumphant completion. The kitchen is steamy and fragrant and Eliott, who didn't have any class past noon, is still in his apron, a paint-smeared discard from the studio. All of this is making Lucas feel warm and wanton. "Ah, hello," Eliott grins around the insistence of Lucas's kiss. "Well," he continues, when he's allowed to breathe again, "somebody's impatient." He smooths a hand over his front, winking. "Even though I have all my clothes on under here today."

"Fuck first, isn't that what they say?"

"Is it?" It's been two years—well, one year, nine months, and one week—since they first kissed, but when Eliott stands this close above him, with his eyes half-lidded and his lips just apart, Lucas's lungs still malfunction and his throat still goes dry. He inclines his face upward like a flower to its sun. Eliott teases him with a tiny bird-peck, then, when Lucas grumbles, opens Lucas's mouth with a lick and intertwines their tongues.

It's only when Lucas is backed onto his elbows against the counter, shirt halfway over his head, that they remember, at the same time, the curry. "Ah fuck," Eliott says, apron strings trailing on the linoleum as he leaps to the pot and jabs its contents with a spoon.

"I'm sure it's fine," Lucas says, muffled as he presses his mouth to Eliott's bare shoulder. "Looks very nice."

"No, look, it's all gluey." Eliott frowns. Lucas pokes the creamy surface with a forefinger, sucks it; Eliott musses his hair. "Hey! You'll burn yourself."

"Ah, _spicy_ ," Lucas pants, using his curry-free hand to fan himself. "Good, though. Have a taste." He pokes again, before Eliott's arm can block him, and offers his finger.

Eliott, smiling but trying not to, extends his tongue and takes a leisurely swipe. Then he seizes Lucas's hand and pushes the finger entirely into his mouth, his smile now undeniable. "Yes. Spicy."

"I applaud you, chef, you've come so far in so short a time, truly—" Eliott snaps off the gas first, this time, before kissing him.

 **December 22|** **Thursday, 23:09**

Eliott yawns luxuriously, lets his hand bump against Lucas's head, scratches the shell of Lucas's ear with two fingers. "Hey guy, you have to eat a little more."

"'m _tired_ though." Lucas would never admit to how much he likes this, when they're easy and warm and he can whine and receive Eliott's petting like a small and cherished animal. Not even to Eliott himself. "Food versus sleep. Sleep wins." He pretends to curl his lip as Eliott pretends to slap him, tapping tenderly with four fingers against his cheekbone. "I had so much class today, unlike some _artistic types_."

"But none again for two whole weeks," Eliott singsongs in a whisper. "I could keep you trapped here for the next three hundred and thirty-six hours." He takes both of Lucas's wrists, mimes cuffing them together. "What do you think?"

"Sex versus sleep," Lucas bites his lip, screws his nose, as if in painfully deep thought. "Hmm."

"I'd let you sleep sometimes." Eliott pecks Lucas's upraised chin, then nibbles it. "And I'd feed you."

"Hmm, yeah? Quite the good deal I get." Lucas suddenly sits up, remembering. "Oh, sorry! Did I get you?"

"No, no," Eliott replies, having flung himself sideways, dodging; he puts a nonchalant hand under his cheek. "What's wrong?" Lucas has reached for his discarded jeans and is burrowing into their pockets. "I think your phone's on the nightstand?"

"No, no—ah!" Lucas brandishes his fist. "Look, _mon cher_ , look what I found today." He uncrumples the little slip of pink as Eliott cranes over him. "Some club I've never heard of. An international munch dance, whatever that is. One fucking Euro and like five minutes from where Yann wants to end the night."

"Sounds pretty international all right," Eliott laughs. "Are they cannibals perhaps?" He draws his knuckles along Lucas's jaw. "Well, no one else's allowed to cook you."

"You are a frightening man."

"I'm not taking a gang of straight dudes on field trips to gay bars all the time." Eliott sticks out his tongue. "Are you secretly hoping that Arthur and Basile—"

"Ugh, God," Lucas puts his hands over his ears. "Stop, stop."

"Oh you _so_ are, you are." Eliott flops onto his back across Lucas's lap, chortling. "Oh, _dirty_ , babe." He pivots and presses his lips against the inside of Lucas's bare thigh. "Dirtiest."

Some time later, they shift Lucas's half-eaten bowl of curry and rice to the nightstand and fall immediately asleep.


	2. You see these shackles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Buckle your seatbelts, we're entering Banter City. 
> 
> Sometimes having to talk to Mika sans the support and comfort of the bottle is pure purgatorial torment. The Mika of this moment is definitely a four-mojito Mika.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear the NC-17 rating is warranted. Scout's honor. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. Please comment/kudos if you enjoyed and want more of this ridiculousness!

  1. **You see these shackles**



**December 24 |** **Saturday, 12:03**

There's no way around Christmas Eve Mass with his parents this year. "But at least all we have to do is sit there and then sit at _reveillon_ dinner with them, after," Eliott reminds him for the fourth time as he is fed some dry muesli, the only thing that he's found to do any good when the hangover is this bad and he can't get even ibuprofen to stay down. "We should like, count our blessings that mine couldn't drag us to be frozen like sad sardines with them on their ridiculous Arctic cruise."

Lucas gives a yelp of laughter, then squeezes his head between his hands. "What the fuck do you think Alex put in those _things_ , Jesus Christ!"

"Good, good, getting in the spirit of the season," Eliott intones, spreading his arms, spoon in one hand and bowl in the other, looking ceiling-ward. "In nomine Patrick et Filet et Sprite Sancti."

Lucas eyes Eliott, still squeezing his head, which feels approximately like a melon bulging with rot after being left too long in the sun. "Yeah, get that blasphemous shit out of your system before tonight, anyway."

"I think she put a half-pint of that plastic-bottle rum in every coconut. Actually I know she did, because I saw her making new ones for the latecomers."

"And you let me _drink a whole one_? Before we have to spend, like, five fuckin' hours with my _parents_? My parents who _hate_ each other?"

"You were too fast, my—" Eliott puts down the bowl, pinches Lucas's cheek—"thirsty _hérisson_. I did keep trying to get you to switch to water after that."

"You are coming to Hell with me, for sure."

"Yep." Eliott leans in, kisses Lucas as if he did not taste of stomach acid and slightly stale muesli, and Lucas feels his eyes moistening. Eliott hadn't gone so easy on the ample offerings of the _foyer_ reunion's liquor table last night, either—a fact for which he should really be reprimanded-- but somehow he still looks as beautiful as an archangel in his open hoodie and flannel pajama bottoms. It would be unfair, except he's here on Earth, Lucas's very own. For reassurance and to restate his claim, Lucas puts his head on his angel's shoulder; it responds, "You'd better stick to water at the restaurant tonight. Remember tomorrow."

Lucas groans, rolling his eyes, and for good measure throws the back of his hand over his face. "Oh God." He peeps between his fingers at Eliott above him, haloed by the sunlight that their cheap Venetian blinds can't quite keep out. "Do we have to?"

"You'll be angry with yourself, but more importantly," Eliott _tsk tsk_ s with an upraised forefinger, "you'll be pissy with _me_ if you miss Manon while she's back. And Mika'll also chew my face off for not making you go."

"This face is for me! He can't have _my_ chew toy." Lucas demonstrates with a nip on Eliott's chin. "Absolutely not." They're both quiet a moment, then at the same time each begins: "I'm not sure if—"

"You first, _hérisson_."

"Look, they're not going to be cannibals. What kind of cannibal advertises in a bathroom in the undergraduate lab building? In the _basement_ of the undergraduate lab building?" Eliott raises an eyebrow. "You've been watching too many of those weird indie stabby flicks."

"They're _documentaries_. And it's _homework_." Eliott replies. "I'd feel better if there were anything on the Internet about the place. I even found this antique telephone book from, like, the year you were born in the laundromat and looked through that. Nothing. Criminals do target people like us, _chéri_. Remember that terrible gardener in Canada."

"Maybe it's like, a speakeasy. With a mystery password."

"But then how'll we get in?"

Lucas sighs and wriggles the top of his head against Eliott's bare belly. "Since when have you been so damn practical? Aren't you supposed to be the free spirit?" Seeing Eliott's tightened mouth, he adds, placatingly, "If it looks way fucked up we'll jet. And there'll be a whole horde of us strappin' lads, remember?" He flexes his bicep and grins at Eliott through the throb in his temples until he's rewarded with a laughing kiss.

 **December 25 |** **Sunday, 20:27**

"Okay, kitty-cat, but that's _super_ sketchy that you can't find it anywhere," Mika says around a skewer of tomatoes and mozzarella balls. "Maybe you want me to ask around?" He bats his eyes at Eliott. "Now I of course _would_ come, if only for Elly here, but as I texted you—"

"No, no, I think the guys are still traumatized from the last time you went with us, Mika." Lucas pinches the bridge of his nose. Sometimes having to talk to Mika _sans_ the support and comfort of the bottle is pure purgatorial torment. The Mika of this moment is definitely a four-mojito Mika, but Eliott has made sad faces at Lucas all day about not overdoing it again, so he is left at only twenty-five percent of his resources. He takes a careful sip from his brimful tumbler so as not to run out too quickly, regretting his as usual too-optimistic promise that he'd be just fine with only one drink.

Lisa shouts to them from where she is dicing mint leaves into perfectly equilateral triangles, loudly eating half while distributing the other half among empty glasses. "Oh, was that when those two guys left you asleep and covered with what was it, fifteen used condoms?"

"Lisa, shush," Mika shouts back, reddening. "Sorry, Elly, ignore—"

"Don't shush me, you prick! I wasn't the one who left his bedroom door wide open for the world to see each and every one of those condoms and my own hairy ass, too!" Lucas, Eliott, Manon, and Charles, wedged side-by-side on the couch, bellow with laughter.

"Aw, Mika-mi," Manon says at last, wiping her eyes on Charles's scarf, "it is a little bit funny, you have to admit." Mika feigns brushing her words away haughtily, but rolls his eyes and allows a small chuckle when she pats his knee. "It sounds like it was fun."

"Well, maybe a little fun. Seriously, though," Mika picks up his glass, swirls it, and peers through it at Lucas. "Maybe bring some pepper spray, kitty-cat, and protect our Elly? What kind of soirée is it after all?"

"Er—a dance? A dance with a _munch_? We honestly don't know what that means." Lucas swivels his head at his friends; the apartment has fallen oddly silent. "I thought maybe it was like, a buffet?" Manon clears her throat. Charles is studying the ceiling. There's a loud sucking noise from the kitchen and a clatter, as of a knife slapped onto a cutting board.

Lisa, wheezing, staggers into the living room, hand on her throat. "Help," she manages, "I think some mint went down the wrong way."

Mika claps his hands, eyes a little wild. "Shall we hurry and do our Secret Santa before the boring people arrive, _mes chères_?"

 **December 26 |** **Monday, 02:14**

" _Hérisson_ , you gotta sleep now," Eliott, rousing, puts a drowsy hand on Lucas's hip. "Blue light is bad this late, I keep tellin' you."

"Sorry I woke you up--one more second." He misspells "munch" a couple of times, gets it right at last, clicks "go," then blinks and scrolls. Eliott's right: his eyes are shutting of their own accord and the words make almost no sense. But his mind has steadfastly refused to settle since he lay down almost two hours ago, playing the strange scene at the _Coloc_ on repeat. He'd tried three or four times to steer the conversation after that weird pause, but somehow Manon or Mika or Charles always took it back to longing and increasingly fabulous plans for the summer holidays, which role Mika would occupy on a French edition of _Queer Eye_ , and whether pet toys shaped like certain unsavory politicians could be effectively used as voodoo dolls.

"It can't wait 'till tomorrow?"

"Bah, I'm sorry. It can." He turns the phone face-down and shoves it under his pillow, leans over to nose at Eliott's cheek, and is pulled down by a sudden hand on the back of his neck.

"Were you looking up 'munch,' _hérisson_?"

Lucas doesn't know why he's so embarrassed; it's not like Eliott knows, either—right? But he _is_ very much embarrassed, and so says nothing in reply. Besides, it's nice being pressed against Eliott like this, Eliott's hair surrounding them in a longer and wilder nest than ever, the pulse in Eliott's throat beating a soothing tattoo near Lucas's ear.

"I already looked a little, earlier." Eliott opens one eye. Perhaps because he knows its sharp color so well, it seems profoundly blue, even in darkness, to Lucas. "Nothin'. Not unless we're supposed to all dress like depressed Norwegians. Or a sharp-looking, middle-aged female public defender from a TV show."

Lucas chuckles, his thoughts beginning to wander, his limbs sleepily twitching. "Doesn't sound very sexy."

"Don't libel middle-aged female lawyers."

Lucas snorts, but is asleep before he can assemble the words to respond.

Lucas dreams vividly. It begins as a dream that has recurred a handful of times since he began the term: himself, naked, pinned at ankles and wrists on their bed by fetters unseen; Eliott, also naked, for some reason a giant—still recognizably the silhouette and face of Eliott, but twenty feet tall, or fifty—looming over him. But the only thing he feels is a calmness that is also excitement. When giant Eliott's lips meet his, Eliott becomes normal-sized again, and Lucas's limbs are again free, so he puts his arms eagerly around Eliott's body. Usually, at this point, he feels dream Eliott inside himself. The pressure against his prostate is perfect, the rhythm never breaks, there is no friction, and his arousal sharpens in metronomic time to dream Eliott's moans until he jerks awake with a terribly urgent hard-on that the real Eliott is always more than glad to resolve.

Tonight, though, both he and dream Eliott are fully dressed in a weird black narrow-sleeved robe with a white barrister's band, fucking standing up on a wooden footbridge in a stunning sunset as passersby tip their top hats at them. The invisible fetters are back, and they're strapping Lucas's wrists together. Dream Eliott sounds like he's saying _munch munch munch_ as he plows Lucas against the perfectly cylindrical railings of the bridge.

The morning wood he wakes up to is _unreal_ , but this time he's glad Eliott, grinning with his eyes closed as he reaches for the waistband of Lucas's shorts, is too always too sleepy to ask Lucas any questions after these dreams.


	3. Baby I'm your slave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What the hell is it, already?" Lucas can't hold in the coughs this time. Eliott rubs his back and murmurs with concern, but he won't be put off. "Some kind of store?"
> 
> "Yes," Eliott replies, his hand circling anxiously on Lucas's back. "It's—weird." He continues, slowly, "it sells, ah, sex—things."
> 
> Lucas rolls his eyes. "Well, I didn't think it sold hamburgers or something. Though I guess some people would find that sexy." 
> 
> *
> 
> If you were wondering when the hell the BDSM part would start...well, wonder no more.

  1. **Baby I'm your slave**



**December 28** **|** **Wednesday** **,** **09:51**

He is for certain coming down with something, but they'd made plans with some of Eliott's school friends for brunch. Lucas scowls at the brilliant sunshine that bathes the living room. If he'd not been a stubborn ass last night and just told Eliott a cold was coming on, maybe they still could've politely cancelled. Now there's no way out: if he said something now, Eliott would be worried and want to stay home to keep Lucas company and his cool classmates would think Lucas an even bigger square than they do already. So Lucas takes some ibuprofen in the bathroom and puts on his warmest socks while Eliott bustles about the narrow kitchen, neatly assembling the pile of empty bottles, wrapping paper, gift bags, and emptied boxes to be taken to the recycling bin.

Lucas pads into the doorway and watches for a little, unnoticed. A Lucas of a previous life must have saved many drowning children and orphaned kittens for him to be standing here, admiring this ridiculous man both for his unforeseen passion for tidying—truly a boon, given Lucas's propensity for heaping his things over all available surfaces like lopsided ziggurats-- and how nice his ass looks in boxers. "Need a hand?"

"Ah, long shower for you today." Eliott draws beside him and chucks his chin, smiling. "No, you don't have to. Nearly done, plus you loathe doing the recycling. You despise it."

"Do not."

"Fine, you're _allergic_ , then. It gives you a runny nose." Sometimes Eliott is like a clairvoyant. Lucas begins to confess that he'd much rather lie down under a blanket on the couch all day, but swallows it, instead crouching in front of the bottles and beginning to put them two at a time in the plastic bag that Eliott has already laid out. Eliott joins him. Presently they are ready to take everything out, Lucas's actual least favorite part of the chore. As Lucas stands with a boxful of wrapping paper and bits of tissue in his arms, he feels something flutter to the floor and land with a little click.

Eliott stoops and retrieves it. "Unopened?" He turns the little bright-purple envelope over. _From Mika to Kitty-cat and Elly!_ _Open privately!_ says the rather hasty curly scrawl across the front.

"Huh." They raise their eyebrows at each other.

"I was wondering why he randomly disappeared into his room for so long on Sunday." Lucas clears his throat before he can give himself away with the cough that longs to escape. "Guess we should open it?"

"I don't know," Eliott bends to bump his forehead against Lucas's. "Are we _private_ enough out here?"

"Hmm," Lucas can't help replying to Eliott's smile with his own, but the prickle in his throat is growing stronger, so he doesn't say anything.

Eliott smirks. "Shall we return to the bedroom, perhaps?" There's no denying him when he puts on that face—though Lucas is very aware, above the neck, of the unwiseness of acquiescence, the reaction below his navel is making a forceful case for letting Eliott take and put aside the box of paper, put his hands under Lucas's shirt, and steer him unerringly toward their room; it does not take very long for its triumph .

 **December 28** **|** **Wednesday** **,** **10:20  
**

Holidays are always like this; if Lucas is being honest with himself, weekends are, too. Any time that they're not doing Real Person Grown-Up things that require clothing and being outside the apartment, really, they're just at perpetual danger of ending up like this, pulling each other's shirts off and tussling until they land on the bed—or on the kitchen table or the couch or, more than a couple of times, the rug next to the couch.

He breaks off kissing Eliott's neck, though, when something pokes him sharply in the ribs. It is the purple envelope, a little wrinkled and totally forgotten. Eliott stops him from chucking it onto the floor. "We should at least have a look." They tear it open. Within is a heavy piece of creamy cardstock the size of Lucas's palm. Handwritten on it—a tiny, fine calligraphic hand clearly not Mika's--are the words "Good for fifty Euros." Then there's an address on the back, somewhere near Les Halles. No indication of the name of the proprietor, a phone number, much less a Web site, just three words in Mika's writing, a bit smudgey: _for my munchers._

"Well," Eliott says, inflectionlessly, as Lucas turns the card over and over, as though doing so would reveal a further clue. "That's interesting."

Lucas quirks a brow. Is this the Eliott who subscribed to every conspiracy-theory podcast and serial and had watched all the serial-killer documentaries he could find online, including the ones in Japanese? "What do you think it is?"

"A generous gift. We'd better text Mika to say thanks. Or—or I can." Eliott has extracted his phone and begun typing before Lucas has had the time to even open his mouth. He blinks up at Eliott.

"You—okay?"

Eliott's eyes flick almost nervously to Lucas's face, then return to his phone. "Yeah, fine."

"Are you—" Lucas puts his hands around Eliott's shoulders, gives them a tug. Even odder: Eliott letting himself be dragged down to sprawl beside Lucas, instead of starting a mini-tussle. "Are you not telling me somethin'?" He fumbles in his back pocket for his own phone, discovers it has slid out during their earlier tumbling, and launches the Internet browser. "Here, gimme that."

"No, um—" Eliott begins to snatch the card away. At a small consternated noise from Lucas, he freezes and, with a slow sigh, raises his eyes to Lucas's bewildered face. "You don't need to look it up, _hérisson_. I know this place. I mean, I've heard of it."

"And?" Eliott has been dutiful with his meds and not smoking the last few months, so Lucas hasn't seen Eliott so grave for a good while. That expression is, as always, like a lance behind Lucas's breastbone. Then, as he tries to hold Eliott's gaze, he realizes that Eliott is slowly flushing, the blood blooming upward from his heart at the same as it descends from his crown.

"Well, Mika told me about it."

"What the hell _is_ it, already?" Lucas can't hold in the coughs this time. Eliott rubs his back and murmurs with concern, but he won't be put off. "Some kind of store?"

"Yes," Eliott replies, his hand circling anxiously on Lucas's back. "It's—weird." He continues, slowly, "it sells, ah, sex—things."

Lucas rolls his eyes. "Well, I didn't think it sold hamburgers or something. Though I guess some people would find that sexy." This remark has the desired effect of making Eliott chuckle. " _Chéri_ , what's wrong with that? I mean, don't get me wrong." Lucas leans back expansively into the pillows. "It's kinda weird that _Mika_ would be talkin' with you about sex toys, but I mean, and you must remember, I _do_ like our plug thingies." He bats his eyelashes. "I mean, that was just last week."

Eliott's mouth eases but does not quite smile. "That was hot."

"So let's just go check out this store, then? I wouldn't say no to some furry handcuffs or something." Lucas hates it when he can't read Eliott. It puts him solidly back into the early days at lycée, when Eliott floated like a blue-eyed cipher that made him hot and cold and aroused and frightened all at once. It makes him remember Eliott on his bad days, curled and silent under all the blankets, nursing a wound that no one can see. He needs to hear at least a little chuckle from that flawless throat, see at least a little upturn in that mouth, so he runs on: "As long as they're not zebra striped or leopard print or that shit. What'd people think if they accidentally saw them lying around? That we're _gay_?"

Eliott puts a second hand alongside the first on Lucas's back and huffs into Lucas's hair, halfway between amusement and reassurance. "We probably have to get dressed soon if we want to make it on time. But you sounded a little sick just now, _hérisson_."

"I'm healthy as a horse. Ten horses," Lucas assumes a double front biceps pose.

"Well, then we might go to the store after brunch? It's maybe ten minutes' walk." To rid Eliott of the weird heavy look that's come over him again, Lucas kisses him, hard.

By the time they are again upright, Lucas is hopping around the room trying to put on his jeans and socks at the same time while Eliott is texting his friends to report that they are going to be catastrophically late with one hand and trying to cram himself into a fresh shirt with the other.

Holidays are always like this.

 **December 28** **|** **Wednesday** **,** **15:38**

"Um," says Lucas, barely above a whisper. He and Eliott are standing before an immaculate floor-to-ceiling three-sided mirror, ringed with soft yellow lights in gilt sconces. Over his t-shirt and boxer briefs, inch-wide straps of black kid leather criss-cross from behind his neck to under his shoulders, then form two further X's over his chest and belly. They form a tighter weave down his arms. Anchored around his waist with a belt trimmed with stainless steel O-rings, the straps continue down each leg. Anklets and bracelets adorned like the belt with O-rings, but a size smaller, weigh down each of Lucas's limbs. He swallows, slowly pivoting and regretting, not for the first time since their arrival at the Atelier Bourdain thirty-five minutes ago, grabbing his rattiest pair of briefs when dashing out of the apartment earlier. The faded ice-cream-cones with which they are adorned are a horrifically undignified cherry on top.

"What do you think, gentlemen?" The middle-aged woman with tight-braided long brown pigtails and surprisingly little makeup or apparent glamour who greeted them at the frosted glass doors shows absolutely no sign of impatience, though she has been accompanying them now for the better part of an hour and through three costume changes. The only sign of any change whatsoever in her is that, above her all-black ensemble of turtleneck and slacks, her smile has grown slightly too wide.

"It's—it's nice," Eliott falters. His eyes have not left Lucas's in the mirror.

"Yeah." Feeling a dangerous stirring in his crotch, Lucas turns his back to the mirror, but it's not much better standing face-to-face with Eliott, either. And the jingling of the O-rings, _fuck_ —he tries to squeeze his thighs together as discreetly as he is able. "But uh, I don't think we can possibly afford it, so—uh—"

"Would you like to try anything else?" She beams.

"Well, thank you, but—"

"I meant _you_ , M. Demaury," she nods once at Eliott. "We have larger sizes of all of the ones we've seen so far. And of course—" she waves a hand genteelly behind her, beyond where the crimson velvet curtain separates the trio from the rest of the Atelier, "—we've a hundred other options, too."

"Well, I don't—" Lucas begins. He has flipped over the very small, cream-colored paper tag tied with red string to an O-ring on his left wrist and jumps a little at the large number of zeroes following a three that he finds there.

"Ah," Eliott opens his mouth, closes it, then opens it again. Lucas blinks at him with rising alarm. He may be the one whose head is pounding and whose sinuses are declaring revolt by filling with fluid, but Eliott has begun to look positively feverish. His cheekbones look like they've been swiped carelessly with blush, and, rarest sight of all, he appears to be sweating lightly, even though all he's been doing is just stand there watching Lucas be put into and taken out of increasingly complex assemblages of leather and steel.

Lucas begins reaching a hand toward Eliott's, hanging at his sides. "Are you--"

"Yes," Eliott says, a little too loudly. "Yes, I'd like to try this one. And the second one, w-with the fur trim."

"Ah yes, the _Esclave Effréné_. In brown suede also?" The pigtailed woman's ears perk almost visibly; she extracts her phone, gleaming softly in a matte black case, from a pocket and flicks through it. "We have also red—two shades of red actually—and a vegan black. That one can come with custom fur trim colors as well." She beams at Eliott. "And this one, as I was saying, comes in an all-chain version."

Eliott's Adam's apple bobs twice. "No, bl-black is fine. Black."

"Very good. Let me help you out of this, then, M. Lallemant—I've called someone to fetch the ones in your size, M. Demaury."

Lucas holds up a palm to detain her. "Actually, can we talk for a minute?"

Madame Pigtails returns the smile that Lucas doesn't even try to give her. "Of course. I can go fetch the things personally, in that case. I'll return shortly."

They whisper at the same time. "What's going on—" "I'm sorry—" Eliott tips his chin toward Lucas, eyes fixed on the marble floor.

"Are you feeling bad?" Eliott shakes his head slowly. "I—you know we can't actually buy any of this stuff?"

"I know." Eliott sounds so miserable and small that Lucas can't help taking each of his hands, with a jangle of steel. "But I, I want to feel what they're like."

"Well, that's fine, but why do you look so—so upset, guy?"

Eliott regards Lucas very carefully. "I haven't told you something."

"What?" They can hear Madame Pigtails' mightily heeled boots clip-clopping back toward them in their velvety cell.

"It'll keep," Eliott mumbles. When Lucas squeezes his hands, insistent, he sighs. "I'll tell you later, _hérisson_ , I promise."

"And here we are, _Esclave Effréné_ and _Esclave Parfait_!" Madame Pigtails steps through the curtains, a long silken garment bag in each hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this bit of fluff will help everyone get through Tra-jeudi and Vendreadi. As always, leave a <3 and/or a comment if you found this time well wasted. Bisous à tous~


	4. I'll let you whip me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These days, Lucas hangs out alone with the boys only to play first-person shooters (which Eliott loathes) and/or when the subject of the emergency conference is Eliott himself. Today, there's no disguising the purpose of the meeting. 
> 
> *  
> Following a strange moment at the Atelier Bourdain and with a little help from their friends, Lucas and Eliott make a breakthrough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earning my Explicit Rating. 
> 
> I hope y'all are ready for a swirl of Le Gang silliness and a generous scoop of Top! Lucas.
> 
> Warnings: reference to Elly's mental illness and (nebulous) reference to self-harm; improvised gags, spanking, and name-calling.

  1. **I'll let you whip me**



**December 29** **|** **Thursday** **,** **13:42**

"So wait, wait." Yann is laughing so hard that he can barely speak. "Let me get this right. You called us in as the cavalry _because your extremely hot boyfriend with whom you are extremely in love wants you to spank him_?" Basile and Arthur get a second wind from this; quivering with hysterics, both are forced to put their heads down on the tiny café table. The table squeaks indignantly at this treatment.

"Not just spanking, not just spanking! Did you guys even listen to me?"

"Okay," Arthur gasps, wiping behind his glasses with his sleeve, "also whipping, ropes, collars?"

"Leather, he also said leather," Basile is slapping his knee, jostling his cup dangerously in its saucer. "And pulling out hair."

"No, not _out_ , on," Lucas drops his face into his hands.

Yann snorts. "Yeah, plucking fetish, that'd be kind of actually interesting."

"You guys—please be at least be a _little bit_ quiet."

"Hey, _you_ were the one beggin' _us_ for help, dude!"

"Yeah, and I, like, _just_ got back from visitin' my mémé in Toulouse with the 'rents this morning, bro. And Arthur here passed up on a Tinder date for you." Basile gestures at Arthur, who pushes his glasses up with great solemnity.

Lucas sighs at them. "Okay, well, all you've done so far is fuckin' laugh at me."

Yann gives him a couple of pats on the shoulder. "Sorry man. I appreciate the excuse to bail on homework for a couple hours. So, like, what exactly is the issue?"

"Well—" now that he tries to name it, Lucas finds that he can't, even though he's spent what feels like every minute since he saw Eliott's eyes take on that weird shine at the Atelier thinking about The Issue. "I guess—well, it's just that it's surprising." He looks at his friends, who look back in silence, each with his eyebrows raised. "What? I mean, look, he's, like, eight centimeters taller than me—"

"Oh bah," Yann says, "can't give advice if you're not gonna be straight-up with us."

"Fine, ten centimeters taller than me. And, I don't know, he's never—or, he's always—" Lucas makes a vaguely aggressive motion with his left hand against his right. The other boys look at one another, eyebrows still high. "Ugh, come on, guys, work with me here. And I'm sick as a dog too." He coughs and takes a large swig of his orange juice.

Arthur taps the bridge of his glasses thoughtfully."Well, in my experience, going both ways is _super_ fun when it comes to BDSM." He blinks as Lucas spits juice all over the table. Basile and Yann gawp for a moment, then begin to laugh again. Their server, taking orders at another table, shoots missiles from her eyes at Lucas. "Hey! My glasses! These are brand-new, you ass."

"I honestly can't believe you haven't tried, um, rougher stuff," Yann says, as they set about mopping up the tabletop with flimsy napkins from the now-sticky dispenser.

"Yeah, what sort of gay dudes _are_ you guys, even?" Basile adds. "Or pansexual dudes."

"Not ones who've ever hit each other," Lucas replies.

" _Ever_?"

"Not even a little, tiny, bitty smack on the ass?"

"A little pinch? Maybe a little teeth?"

"A touch of titty twisting?"

"Fucking A, guys, you gotta stop," Lucas pretends not to see the continued stream of deadly payloads being delivered via their server's unblinking gaze, or the alarmed expressions on the faces of the neighboring middle-aged couple who have folded their newspapers down to stare.

"Seriously, man," Yann says, "it sounds like the kinda thing you two need to have a good talk about, yeah? Like, what you wanna do, what he wants to do." Arthur and Basile make strong noises of assent.

"Well," Lucas begins, thinking of the silence that had settled over him and Eliott as they walked home, yesterday, a ninety-five Euro stainless-steel collar—the cheapest item at the Atelier—padded by a thick wad of black tissue paper within an unmarked paper bag cradled in Eliott's arms.

He thinks of Eliott's terribly darkened eyes, his shoulders slumped under his coat, his chin buried in his scarf, all the way home. Of Eliott kissing him good night as though it were their last bedtime together, of a rumpled Eliott who'd clearly not slept much scribbling away at his sketchpad in the living room, back turned to Lucas, that morning. Of Eliott trying to joke about the weather and American politics, after which Lucas had texted Le Gang in desperation.

Thinking about Eliot makes Lucas take out his phone: no new texts in the last eight minutes, but Eliott has responded dutifully to every single one Lucas sent him since leaving the apartment. He taps out another, with a deep breath: _just about done, see you soon_ , and adds his usual hedgehog emoji with a pink heart. He can feel his friends' eyes on him. "Well, I think—I think it upsets Eliott. For some reason."

"What, but you said that _he_ said—"

"Yeah, and I tried to ask him more about it, but he's been basically stonewalling me since yesterday."

"Shame," Arthur pronounces.

"What?" Lucas blows his nose on the handful of remaining napkins. "Yeah, it's a shame he's so weird up about it—"

"No, no, dude, I mean, _he's_ ashamed!" Yann and Basile are nodding. "You even said you didn't know what to say to him when he finally told you."

"I—it's not like I yelled at him!"

"But it's not like you were jumping up and down to whip him, either. Okay," Arthur points double finger guns at Lucas. "You just gotta go work your magic on your boyfriend. Word magic."

"You got this, bro." Yann says, with a final encouraging pat on Lucas's shoulder. "Man, look at what you guys've been through already. We'll see you Saturday."

 **December 29** **|** **Thursday, 14:19  
**

He definitely does not "got it." He does not "got it" at all.

First, he flips out for, as it turns out, no reason when he finally rattles the apartment door open to be greeted by a massive billow of warmth. Gripped by a dread he does not dare describe even to himself, Lucas charges in with his boots still on, only to be nearly knocked down by colliding with Eliott, materializing suddenly from the kitchen. "Hey, what's the matter?"

Lucas coughs for a few seconds, straining to catch his breath. Eliott, bending solicitiously over him, tentatively massages his shoulder; Lucas lets his forehead drop against Eliott's arm. "Sorry, I just thought—just thought you'd left the stove on."

"Nah," Eliott replies after a cautious pause. "Just took out some muffins from the oven. Thought I'd bring 'em over as thanks for Mika." They stand in the awkwardly dark spot in the short corridor between the front door and the living room for a few minutes more, unmoving.

"Ah," Lucas pulls his face reluctantly from the soft, infinitely Eliott-smelling nubbliness of Eliott's sweatshirt. "And sorry I ran out."

The shadows of fatigue under Eliott's eyes can't stop his smile from pealing Lucas's heart like an annunciating bell. " _I_ should be sorry for worrying you." He puts his lips to Lucas's temples, first the right side, then the left. "How was Le Gang?"

Lucas huffs in slightly uneasy amusement. These days, he hangs out alone with the boys only to play first-person shooters (which Eliott loathes) and/or when the subject of the emergency conference is Eliott himself. Today, there's no disguising the purpose of the meeting. Eliott continues, "Didja, you know, spill a lot of tea?"

"Actually, we—or I—spilled like a whole glass of juice."

Eliott vibrates in amusement. "Surprised they didn't kick you out."

"Nearly! Forget spitting in our drinks, I thought that waitress was going to just directly spit on _me_." They chuckle together. Lucas shuts his eyes. He wants to pause time right here, buried easy and safe and warm in Eliott's arms, Eliott's fingers carding gently through the hairs of his nape. He could sleep like this, even on his feet. But he remembers the Eliott of the previous afternoon, burrowed into his scarf, pressing that unmarked paper bag against his side, not meeting Lucas's eyes, and knows he can't run away from this. He clears his throat. "Um—so—can we talk about—about yesterday?"

Eliott gently pushes Lucas backward to look directly into his face. Chewing his cheek, Lucas resists the overwhelming urge to look away. " _Hérisson_." If he weren't being wrung like a rag by anxiety at the moment, Lucas would be marveling at how Eliott still manages to look resplendent with crazy hair, no sleep, and his lips pinched shyly together. As it is, he feels a treacherous twitch in his pants. "We don't have to."

"No, c'mon." He pokes Eliott's sternum, trying to exude a steady coolness, which is always a nearly impossible undertaking if he's also looking into Eliott's eyes. "I want to—to know you. Know you more, I mean. Better. Not that I don't know you now, but—" _Fuck, you loser_. He inhales and holds it, trying not to move. Eliott's eyes are like the sea in shadow.

"You know I wouldn't know what to do," Eliott says in a single breath, "if I lost you."

Lucas's heart performs what can only be described as an Olympic gold-medal gymnastics floor routine. He can't speak, and in fact he can barely keep his eyes on Eliott's. But that's the least he can do, so he tries his best, trying to shout through his gaze the _me too_ that his idiot mouth can't quite eke out. 

"But I can't stand it if you—if you were ashamed of me, or if you were disgusted. I'd rather you go—go find someone else, than that." As has almost never happened, Eliott's the first one to look away, this time. He turns his whole body away from Lucas; his chin sinks to almost rest on his chest. But his fingers are still woven with Lucas's, and Lucas squeezes both of Eliott's hands, hard, clenching his jaw.

"What are you saying?" He slides his hands up Eliott's sleeves, pushing them back along Eliott's forearms, which are still streaked by a few stubborn blots of ink from his printmaking class last week. "How could I possibly leave you to be such a—such a _fucking_ dumbass by yourself?" He has to admit that it's nice to make Eliott be the one whose eyes widen and whose throat clicks, for once.

Maybe Arthur was onto something.

Buoyed, Lucas says, low and quiet, "Come back here." When Eliott does so immediately, putting his arms around Lucas and laying his head docilely on Lucas's shoulder with his mouth resting hesitantly against the bare skin between the coils of Lucas's worn maroon scarf, the unfamiliar pleasure trickling outward from somewhere around the base of Lucas's neck turns into a rush of something strange, and—he swallows, shifting his thighs—definitely exciting. "So you wanna be whipped, 's that it?"

Eliott barely nods.

Lucas resists the urge to clear his throat, though it feels clogged to hell; when he opens his mouth again, his voice sounds like stirred gravel, and it would be something to laugh at if it weren't also making Eliott gasp aloud. "D'you wanna put on your present from Mika?" After a long pause, Eliott again nods.

"Go get it then." Lucas begins to unwind his scarf. "I'll wait on the couch."

 **December** **29 |** **Thursday** **,** **22** **:** **2** **3**

 _Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzzt._ He gropes for the phone with both eyes closed, then, giving up with a huff, sits up. It's fallen just under the bed, somehow. He bends carefully over, mindful of Eliott pressed flush against him, thigh to thigh, and notes the glint of the collar, lying on the rug, unlocked. Thank the God he doesn't believe in; it's not a call, just a string of WhatsApps from Le Gang.

 _yo bro how did it go!? dyin of suspense over here,_ says Yann. The others concur via a stream of wide-eyed emojis, flexing biceps, and shrugging figures.

 _if u can't bring urself to whip Eliott i can come over anytime to do it_ , Basile adds. _Even during the semester. Id crawl from marseille for that for real._ Lucas snorts.

Eliott, sighing, extends a hand to stroke the small of Lucas's back, each finger cool against the skin. "All right?"

"Ah yeah," Lucas taps out a _all good, thx 4 ur concern,_ silences the phone, and slides it onto the nightstand. "Just the guys being dumb."

"Mm." The sight of Eliott curled like this, naked, drowsy, one eye glittering behind the tangle of his hair in the dimness of the room, makes Lucas's tongue stick to his teeth. "I bet it was Arthur who taught you to do that spit thing."

"Ugh, ew!" He bops Eliott's shoulder. "Filthy."

"Hah, well, I _certainly_ hope he didn't do a demo. But maybe he gave a detailed lecture. Or wrote cues down on a napkin?" Eliott throws his limbs around Lucas, who lets himself be dragged down and thoroughly snuggled. "Yeah, I feel like it was the napkin. With diagrams."

Lucas turns within the ring of Eliott's arms. "Careful." Though it's been less than six hours since he began, he can dip into this gravel-gargling register now almost at will. The nagging itch in his throat helps a lot. This is the first time he has ever regretted getting over a cold, and he suspects strongly that it won't be the last. "Unless you didn't get enough?"

Eliott is giving him That Look, the one that, to the untrained eye—and to Lucas's own eyes, just a day ago—seems to say _I wish to drag you to my bed and use my gorgeous cock to piledrive your brains out_ , but which Lucas now knows, at least as it pertains to himself, to be an invitation to do just the opposite.

"Insatiable little slut, huh?" A flower of arousal unfurls at the root of Lucas's cock as he watches Eliott's breath stutter and those ridiculous eyelashes flicker. He sucks slowly on his front teeth. "You'll have to work for it this time."

"Mm, yeah?" Eliott, eager, has already shed the covers to get on his hands and knees above Lucas. His pupils are enormous, and behind his parted lips, his teeth glisten.

In lieu of a reply, Lucas digs his fingertips into the meat of Eliott's ass, his thumbs hard against the arc of Eliott's iliac crest. Eyes closing and mouth opening for a groan, Eliott grinds himself against Lucas's belly, then kisses their cocks together. He begins to put his fist around both of them, but looks up at Lucas at the last instant, querying.

Lucas tries to breathe deliberately above the relentless bassline of his heart. "No. Inside." Eliott moans, though Lucas has moved not at all. His hands are still locked around Eliott's hips. "You should—" Lucas lets himself buck a little, just a little, to wedge his balls against Eliott's; the sensation is beyond words. "You should be all nice and _relaxed_ from earlier, yeah?"

He imagines this is what it's like to be possessed; the peculiar, delectable wildness that's been propelling him all these hours since he made Eliott put on the collar lifts his right hand and brings it with a hard slap against Eliott's ass, and Eliott, who had been shifting to put Lucas's cockhead into position against his hole, gives a full-throated cry of delight, then another, as Lucas hits him again. "Quiet." _Slap._ "Hush! Remember, we heard the upstairs people coming home like, an hour ago." He cranes up as Eliott meekly bends and takes Eliott's left earlobe into his mouth. "Or do you want 'em to hear, is that it?"

"God, no," Eliott is draped heavily over Lucas as though his bones have melted. _Slap._ "No!"

"I don't think I believe you." Lucas runs his tongue along the sensitive anti-helix of Eliott's ear, then crams it against the opening, suppressing with great effort the groans that threaten to break from his lips.

"Ah, no—" Eliott shudders, tries to pull his face away. "You'll make me—"

Lucas unlatches his mouth from Eliott's ear to whisper point-blank into it. "Come? You'll come, being hardly touched at all?" Eliott's breaths are hard and rough like sobs. "I don't think so." Lucas reaches behind him; luckily it only takes a little rustling about before he locates what he seeks, and he is able to bring it unhurriedly before Eliott's eyes. "Open your mouth."

Eliott shivers as he inhales; Lucas can feel the goosebumps prickling under his fingertips. "No, don't," he says, his lips moving taffy-slow, bitten and shining red, his eyes unblinkingly on Lucas's.

"Open." Lucas thrusts Eliott's crumpled boxer briefs, discarded who knows how many hours ago beside Lucas's pillow, into their owner's mouth. "Get the lube. I think it fell on your side." Whimpering through his mouthful of cotton, Eliott complies, then resumes his wide kneel above Lucas, just clear of the precum oozing sluggishly from Lucas's cock. Lucas snaps the lid open, then puts the little red-and-purple bottle back in Eliott's trembling hand. "Put it on yourself, slut."

Gratifyingly, Eliott is even louder with his improvised gag than without. Lucas watches the scene through lids drawn low: Eliott slowly and generously coating his left hand; Eliott throwing his head back as he maneuvers a finger, then two, inside himself. Probing further, Eliott opens his mouth so wide, gasping, that the briefs nearly fall out.

"Oh, still got all that cum from earlier inside, dontcha?" The tears that begin to shine under Eliott's lashes are too much. The sight of them forces Lucas to drag at Eliott's wrist, hissing, "My turn now," and drive himself into Eliott with an unsteady jerk before he embarrasses himself by coming all over them like a fifteen-year-old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. Please check out my other stuff and let me know what you think of this mega-silly fic that has been mega-fun to write.


	5. If I misbehave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're going to make a dick joke, aren't you."
> 
> "Sweet God, how dare you make such an insinuation, my good sir. Absolutely not. It was a penis joke."
> 
> *  
> The boys finally make it to Club Pégase, 10 Rue Dupetit-Thouars. 
> 
> A chapter comprising mostly fluff, comfort, and banter as we batten down our proverbial hatches on this Trajeudi.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always for reading and for your kudos and comments! Look for the final chapter, featuring Nicotino and Evak, after the events of Vendredi. Bisous.

  1. **If I misbehave**



**December 3** **0 |** **Friday, 08:08  
**

He will, he feels certain, never grow tired of watching Eliott sleep in the gray barely-light of early morning, coming at this moment cool and calm through the curtains. Under his shut lids, Eliott's eyes tremble and dart, dreaming. Reverently, Lucas bows to nestle his nose against Eliott's temple. Even his continuing sore throat can't mar the peace of the moment.

They don't say a lot of love-dovey things to each other, him especially. But the events of yesterday have Lucas feeling crammed with sentiment, so he puts his mouth barely against Eliott's warm ear and says "I love you" almost without moving his lips. He lingers a while in what should be an uncomfortable position, inhaling the scent of Eliott's hair; when he draws back to stretch his neck, Eliott's eyes are open, and wide. " _Hérisson_."

Lucas feels unaccountably shy and foolish. If anyone, it's usually Eliott who wakes him up whispering fluffy shit into his ear, not the other way 'round. "Hi. It's too early. Should go back to sleep."

"Mm, not tired." says Eliott, shuffling onto his elbows and cracking his neck. "So I think I forgot my meds yesterday. Oops!"

"Oh." Lucas licks his lips. It's still hard, beyond hard, to be composed when he knows Eliott might be suffering. "How about we eat something and you can take today's first dose now?"

They shuffle together into the kitchen and Lucas makes Eliott sit and wait as he heats water and pulls the wax paper off the plate of bacon-and-apple muffins on the counter. Eliott interrupts his humming and drumming on the edge of his chair to protest: "Ah, but those are for Mika, babe, for Mika."

"He knew fifty Euros would barely cover half the cheapest thing at that damn place," Lucas says, taking another muffin for himself. "Ten of _your_ muffins is plenty for that miser." But it's not just that the bacon-apple combination is strangely tasty, nor that Eliott's baking has become by far his most excellent culinary skill; it's more that Lucas is beginning to slightly panic. Eliott's not had a manic episode since the summer, and that hadn't been too serious, just too much stress from readying his first end-of-term show. And now he's just spent most of an entire day alternating between getting fucked until his eyes roll in his head and being thwhacked like a Catholic-school miscreant, and it's all because Lucas can never seem to get a fucking grip once he starts anything. Though, his brain smugly adds, he did at least get a _really_ good grip on Eliott yesterday.

"I think it's okay," Eliott says, swallowing his pill and chasing it with a sizeable chunk of muffin and a deep swig of water. "Are you scared, _hérisson_? You've gotta funny look on your face. Come sit here." He pats his lap.

Lucas pulls his fingers through his hair, sighing, but presently acquiesces. "I'm not _scared_."

"Ah yeah?"

"I'm _concerned._ " Eliott bumps their foreheads together and watches him talk, fondly. "About—about all that—all the things we did yesterday. Sorry I didn't remember to remind you about the meds."

"It's okay. I feel okay." Eliott rubs his chin against the top of Lucas's head. "Mm, lots more than okay. Sorry I forgot to thank you. Doing all that work." Lucas snorts. "Putting up with me."

This goads Lucas into action; he stands, turns, and looks down at Eliott, putting his arms around Eliott's neck. "Don't be dumb. It wasn't 'putting up with you'."

"No?" Eliott's little smile is evolving rapidly into a smirk.

"You're going to make a dick joke, aren't you."

"Sweet God, how dare you make such an insinuation, my good _sir_. Absolutely not. It was a _penis_ joke."

"Anyway I—clearly I, I—" he bats away Eliott's teasing hand from his cheek. "I liked it, all right? I liked it too." His face feels approximately the color and temperature of a newly boiled lobster. "Sorry I—I didn't handle it better."

"Can't really blame you." Eliott's smirk fades into the expression of utter earnestness that still unfailingly makes Lucas inhale and swallow, bracing himself to meet that tide of deep clear blue. "I keep not telling you important things, don't I?"

Lucas takes two tries to get his tongue to work. "I guess so."

"But that's it, though. Nothing else. End of all my mystery." The smirk makes a sudden return, and it looks fiercer than before. "This doesn't mean you always get to whip me, _hérisson_."

"No?"

"Not when I know how much you like being," Eliott says, tilting his face insolently, "railed facedown into your pillow until you cry."

"Whoa, whoa, I _was_ _not_ crying. I was allergic to that pillow!"

"Sure. Eliott plies his mouth against Lucas's throat and jaw, presses him backward on the table. Lucas knows it would be extraordinarily easy to let himself be taken this way—it wouldn't be the first stress test of their furniture-assembly skills. But neither his cough nor his worry has gone away. Eliott's hands are darting under the hem of Lucas's t-shirt, tugging at the drawstring of his sweatpants, sliding upward toward a nipple.

"Wait," Lucas tries to sit up, kicking his legs in search of leverage. "Wait, stop." He manages to snare a hand in Eliott's hair and gives a less-than-gentle tug. Eliott freezes, his mouth hovering over Lucas's exposed flank. "Ah, _chéri_ , I'm sorry—"

Eliott straightens himself, then drops into his chair, expression unreadable, lips tight.

"I just mean we should—we should take it easy today, maybe. What with the partying tomorrow." Lucas resumes his seat on Eliott's lap, puts his mouth to the stubbled cheek a little pleadingly. "Okay?"

For several minutes, Eliott sits perfectly still, one hand flat on Lucas's shoulder and the other curled around his knee. Lucas chews his lip until he tastes a tinge of blood on his tongue. Finally, Eliott says, in a small voice, eyes downcast, "Are you going to punish me for misbehaving?"

"What? No!" Lucas finally notices the upward quirk of Eliott's mouth. "Ah, dammit, you dick." He pantomimes slapping Eliott with the back of a hand. "No, I'll punish you, um, when I want to. Which is not now." Smiling wide, Eliott seizes Lucas's hand and kisses each knuckle.

 

 **December** **31|** **Saturday, 20:25**

"I don't know, wearing that outside can't be a good idea." Lucas taps at his phone, legs swinging from his perch on the kitchen counter. "Maybe we should ask Mika what he meant by giving us the gift 'for the munch' or whatever."

"A little late, isn't it, _hérisson_?" Eliott's hooded, smiling eyes make Lucas fidget. "Maybe we can cover this with a scarf on the way there." He runs a forefinger indolently along the bottom of the collar that gleams against his throat. "Plus, using my _mighty_ powers of deduction, Watson, I conclude that a munch must be some weird American word for—well, you know. A _special_ kind of party."

Lucas tries not to glance up from his screen; Eliott is too dangerous to look at. He would not be dissuaded from choosing his tightest, blackest outfit, against which the collar is as obvious as a shout. "Well, if it gets too sketchy we're all gonna bail. I've texted the girls the address, just in case."

"What, including Imane? Are you just constantly trying to make her hate you?"

"C'mon, she's always sober and she knows how to get shit done, for example rescuing hostages from weird sex torturers." Several WhatsApp messages arrive at once; Lucas's phone buzzes frenetically. "Oh, Le Gang is on the way."

"Ah. What've we got for pre-gaming here?" Eliott embraces Lucas from the side, hard enough to almost topple him to the floor. "I think a couple of six-packs, and at least half a handle of rum in the cabinet—" he is interrupted by Lucas giving the large D-ring on the front of the collar a tug. " _Mon cher_ , I'm afraid we won't really have time for _that_ right now if your friends are coming."

Lucas tries to look stern. "One drink for you." Confronted with Eliott's extravagant pout, he adds, the sternness slipping in the face of, if he were being completely honest, his own fear, "At least for now. What if this Pégase place really _is_ super sketchy?"

"And _you_ all get to get tanked before going?"

"We are not going to get tanked on one six-pack and, like, three fingers of rum." Eliott pinches Lucas's chin between thumb and forefinger, peering at him. "What?"

" _Hérisson_ , we really don't have to go to this munchy crunch thing." Eliott places two fingers on Lucas's lips as they part in protest. "Shh—we really don't."

"But you'd like it—I mean, maybe _I'd_ like it too, and—and people always say to, like, spice things up, and the guys are all gonna come, and—"

"But it's making you worry." Lucas closes his mouth and assumes an indignant face, in vain; Eliott giggles. "C'mon now, I can tell when you're scared."

Lucas leans his head into Eliott's palm. "No, not scared." He takes a few deep breaths, lifts his face so that Eliott is cupping his chin. "Well, more scared that you'll think I'm fucking lame and boring than anything else."

Eliott actually looks surprised, which always makes Lucas feel like he wants to snap a photo of his hard-won, extra-rare prize. By the time Eliott replies, though, it's again with his low-lashed grin, a terrifyingly effective cross between Mona Lisa and the Cheshire Cat. Whatever kind of raccoon Eliott is, there's a good bit of feline mixed in his blood.

"I would call this Thursday a lot of things. But _not_ boring." Then he kisses Lucas, hard and deep, and it's by some minor miracle that they manage to keep their clothes on—apart from Lucas's cast-aside hoodie—by the time Le Gang arrives.

 

 **December** **31|** **Saturday, 22:36**

10 Rue Dupetit-Thouars is a tall, narrow brick mansion with blacked-out windows. A small neon sign depicting the same meaty Pegasus as had adorned the pink bathroom-stall poster hangs over one gable, and tinny music leaks from within. Four of their party arrive at Club Pégase's slightly dented front door totally tanked, and the fifth, furious. Lucas, who has kept one hand in the pocket of Eliott's parka during their journey to the Marais, giggles as he is half-dragged toward the door. "Goodbye, mortals," he waves at Le Gang, who cheer and wave back. "Are we blastin' off, Elly? Should I do a countdown?"

"Yes, we are five," Eliott says loudly into the call box. "No, no reservation, but we do have the cover charge ready." He passes the fistful of change through the mail flap, as instructed.

Lucas lazily ruffles Eliott's hair as they wait for the door to open. "Elly, why're you so mad?"

"Did Lulu not take out the garbage again?" Basile chuckles to himself.

"Thought he said the whippin' went great though."

"Sure did." Lucas high-fives Arthur and Yann, blows a raspberry at Basile.

"He must," Yann says, almost sounding sober, "be mad 'cos we are so— _fucking_ —wasted!" Le Gang bursts into another round of cackles as the door swings inward, opened by a robust-looking, rather short man with curling dark hair, a tidy mustache, and a touch of white in the trimmed beard over his cheeks.

The boys snort with repressed amusement at his ensemble: a creased light-blue button-up under a heavily pilled cardigan, a pair of chinos, and downright fatherly brown slip-on shoes. But the man seems not to notice any incongruity between his outfit and the tawdriness of the vestibule, covered in red wallpaper punctuated with mirrors of varying size and illuminated by a series of floor candelabras with actual candles burning in them. He takes their coats and hats. Eliott's collar positively blazes as he strips off his scarf.

"Definitely violates fire code," Arthur murmurs as the man, who apparently cares not at all that he is admitting a passel of young drunks, delivers them to a middle-aged woman with her blonde hair half-fastened behind her head, dressed in a concrete-colored sweater and sensible slacks, her wide blue eyes impassive. She looks strangely familiar to Lucas, but, then again, she could be any woman his mother's age. He decides that he was forced to exchange pleasantries with her once at church. She leads them up the stairs, toward the tinkling of piano music and a rising burble of voices, holding aloft a three-pronged candelabra that she lights from one of the larger ones.

"I feel like we're in a movie. A movie about wizards," Basile says, nearly tripping on a stair.

"Look," Eliott hisses, still tugging Lucas along, now by a hand in the back pocket of his jeans. The other three bob behind him like rowboats in the wake of a sailship under full wind. "You people need to sober _the fuck_ up. I refuse to deal with all of you for two more hours like this." Their blonde guide seems, like the man at the door, also unmoved by any of this.

"Shit, he's really mad," Lucas shakes his head lugubriously at his friends. "He never cusses in public."

"Sorry, Eliott," Arthur says, with sincere feeling. "I shouldn't have brought the weed or the tequila. I like your collar though."

"And here you are, gentlemen," their guide indicates another door, this one gilt and imposing. "The munch is here; the smaller rooms are as labeled. We will escort guests to the ball in the parlor nearer midnight."

Yann whispers as Eliott jiggles the doorknob, "Isn't it kinda weird that a gay club would have a lady employee?"

  
"She could be gay, too," Lucas replies, raising his index finger like a prophet. Then the door comes finally open, and they see a tight-packed crowd awash in the commingled odors of pot and cigarettes and perfume. The music is both incredibly tinkly and incredibly loud. Most of the people look male, but not all; their average age appears to be approximately twice that of Le Gang's.

Eyes turn toward them, flick through them as though through a deck of cards, and—Lucas observes this perfectly, though he could hardly see well enough to unbutton his coat properly in the vestibule to hand to the man at the door—soon fasten on Eliott and his shining collar.

Lucas curls both arms around Eliott's waist so that he has Eliott in a hug that would be bearish if he came to any higher than Eliott's chin. "Let's go," he says, feeling suddenly sober. "It's super sketchy here after all." He shoots some venomous looks at a few older men who have begun to drift in Eliott's direction.

"Yeah, we should go," Basile nods vigorously. I have seen zero dicks so far. This is a _terrible_ gay club."

"Hel _lo_ , bro, grow some observational powers," Arthur baps Basile on the shoulder. "Take a look at the crown molding." Lucas also looks up: the entire ceiling of the room is ringed with white dildos that match the plaster's color perfectly. They point rather aggressively toward the crowd below.

"Well," Basile sniffs, "at most those're only dick-adjacent. Don't count."

"Hey, there's another room open behind the door there. Looks quieter." Now Lucas is the one steering Eliott along.

"Lucas," Eliott begins, warningly, but they're already across the threshold.


	6. No one makes me feel this way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He shakes hands with Nico, Marti, Even, Isak, and Jonas, feeling like he is at a very strange diplomatic summit. A couple of Germans are also due to come, but are running late. "What kind of Germans are they supposed to be?" Nico smirks, and the table giggles.
> 
> *
> 
> Our boys finally meet some international friends at Club Pégase. There is banter, so much banter. And the grand conclusion HAS to be a sex scene, right? Right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags that are too spoilery for the front page, just FYI-- ;)
> 
> Vers! Lucas, Vers! Eliott. 
> 
> *  
> Thanks for reading this far! Again, if you liked the ride, please let me know with a kudos, or better yet, a comment! You can find more of my fic on this site; you can also follow me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/xiangyu).

  1. **No one makes me feel this way**



**December 31|** **Saturday, 22:50**

The room isn't large, but it is both cooler and quieter than the dildo chamber. Under skylights through which a weak moon filters, there is a long table of medieval heft. A heap of papers, thickly printed with what might be a questionnaire, and a box of golf pencils are its sole adornment. Along it sit five other young men about the same age as Le Gang, perhaps a year or two older, each gripping a golf pencil and contemplating his copy of the questionnaire.

At the moment Lucas crosses the threshold with his arms tight around Eliott's black-swathed midsection, the slightest of the boys, black-haired and dark-eyed, occupies the middle seat. The paleness of his body practically glows under his large-eyed fishnet shirt. He's nudging the redhead shoulder-to-shoulder with him on his right and hooting with laughter. The taller of the two tall fair-headed boys at a little remove to Fishnet's left says to the table at large, in English with a barely detectable accent, "Sounds like you've gotten to the fun section." His companion, guffawing, gives him a punch on the shoulder, clinking the D-rings decorating the throat of Blond Giant's turtleneck. Lucas stares as they kiss. It's a pretty sight, yes, but he also feels a sudden burst of déjà vu. He's _definitely_ never seen any of these guys at church, though.

Another dark-haired boy in a black hoodie, sitting with the blonds but with no metal in evidence on his person, quirks one rather heavy eyebrow; he has the same accent as Blond Giant, which Lucas still can't quite place. "I don't think most people call—" he squints at the paper—"'being hung by the ankle and beaten with—with squashes?—something 'fun'." He gestures with his drink at the door. "Oh look, new friends."

"Hi," Eliott says, putting up his hand. "Hello," Lucas says at the same time, not letting go of Eliott, because Fishnet, still laughing, is giving Eliott a up-and-down look that lingers suspiciously on the collar. In fact, the blonds are doing the same.

They introduce themselves and Le Gang, Lucas letting Eliott, whose English has always been much superior, take the lead. But he keeps one arm firmly around Eliott's waist, even as he shakes hands with Nico, Marti, Even, Isak, and Jonas, feeling like he is at a very strange diplomatic summit. A couple of Germans are also due to come, but are running late. "What kind of Germans are they supposed to be?" Nico smirks, and the table giggles.

"So you are here on holiday?" Eliott says, finally looking a little less irate, as they take seats facing the others; they nod, with gentle clinks of hardware.

"Well, I'm on working holiday," Jonas gestures to Isak and Even. "They're just visiting."

"Who can miss Paris on New Year's?" Nico raises his glass, and the others, cheering, clink it with theirs. "Oh, where are your drinks?"

"We didn't see any," Eliott replies with a charming inclination of his head.

"In the big room outside," Marti says, his navy sweater and pale blue sunglasses looking deeply and absurdly wholesome against everyone else's ensemble. Even Le Gang are at least in black. "Along the back wall, there is a bar."

When Lucas tightens his grip, Eliott says, again with a warning edge. "Will you go get me a drink, babe?"

Lucas swallows as nine pairs of eyes turn to him, mostly because Eliott saying "babe" in English makes a tingle shoot from the back of his skull directly into his crotch, but also because he is realizing that Even either has no pants on or has selected some extremely, extremely abbreviated ones. Isak and Marti seem to be nodding at him slightly, possibly with sympathy. "Someone else must come help me," he says, hating how much like a child he sounds.

"I'll come," Nico and Even say at the same time; Nico winks at Even, who wiggles his eyebrows.

Swallowing again, Lucas looks imploringly at his friends, but Arthur and Basile are arguing in low, serious tones about whether the decorative ears of corn, eggplants, and cucumbers in the thick rug over the tiled floor count as dicks while Yann, facedown on the table, quivers into his folded arms with mirth. "Useless dicks," he mutters. Eliott is no better: he does his Cheshire-Lisa smile as Lucas slips his arm free and stands, then pulls Lucas down for a peck and a whispered "thanks." His exasperation seems to have evaporated entirely.

"Open bar," Nico grins at Lucas, who tries to smile back without letting his eyes fall on Nico's very shiny, very tight leather chaps, through the open front of which protrudes a garment that Lucas can only describe as a cock corset.

"But we have to be careful," Even adds, nodding at Nico. Lucas can't decide whether to give thanks that Even does turn out to have something covering his ass after all, or to be alarmed at what a shit-awful job those microscopic hotpants are making of it. "We're not supposed to have more than another drink. But you youngsters can hit it hard, right?" Now he's _winking_ at Nico, and it doesn't look to be just a friendly wink, either.

Lucas feels like he's jumped alone into what he thought was an inflatable kiddie pool but turns out to be a dark and bottomless tarn. He's met a few poly _straight_ people at university, but being among gay ones makes him as wary as an animal wandering too far from its den. The older boys seem to notice him tensing and simultaneously give him claps on the back. "Let's go," Nico laughs, "before they run out of all the good stuff."

 

 **December 31|** **Saturday, 23:44**

 

"We should--" Lucas clears his throat and ends up, accidentally, with his pebble-swilling voice. He can feel Eliott shiver a little beside him. Blushing and hoping with fervor that no one noticed, he steals too long a swig of Eliott's club soda and coughs.

"Okay, babe?" Eliott says in English, patting his thigh. Lucas tries to blink out a code for "please stop" as his idiot dick twitches at _that word_ again, but Eliott seems to interpret his efforts as "kiss me," and does so. Le Gang and Jonas actually _coo_ as one.

The night has, incredibly, gotten only more disturbing—at least for Lucas. The others, his best friends included, seem to have no problem whatsoever bantering about whether they prefer wax play or erotic tickling. "Absolutely wax," Arthur declares. He thwaps his hand declaratively against his copy of the Find-A-Kink, Find-A-Friend worksheet that each of them, following suit with the older boys, has begun to fill out. "A thousand percent wax."

Isak, who is quite pink in the cheeks (Lucas is forced to admit that it's a good look), waves his hand. "No way. Tickling for _sure_. You French are weird."

"But what if you—" Basile opens and closes his hand as though this would help him pluck the word from the air—"what if you _urinate_?" Everyone howls. Jonas chokes on his beer. "What?"

"Well, that is next on the list," Marti leans in, brandishing his worksheet, the light of the candelabra overhead catching on his earring. He looks much better without the sunglasses. And without the sweater, under which, to Lucas's dismay, he has on a fishnet shirt that matches his boyfriend's. "Golden shower or, uh." He narrows his eyes. "What is this one, Ni?"

"Oh, that is when you fuck someone's asshole with your tongue," says Nico. He might as well have been talking about making carbonara. But his eyes are sparkling alarmingly.

"A hard question." Even nibbles salaciously on the end of his golf pencil, smirking at Isak. "Okay, the second one." Isak, turning even pinker, punches his shoulder again.

"People _do_ that?" Basile stammers. Arthur rolls his eyes. "I thought that was only in porn?"

"Well, Baz, my friend," Nico spreads his hands with a smile both sweet and somehow frightening. "This will become a _play_ party after midnight. So if you stay another—" he turns the smile on Marti, who glances at his watch and interjects without hesitation, "fifteen minutes"—"another quarter-hour, you can see for yourself." The smile widens. "Or _try_ it yourself."

"You think—you think I could?"

They all laugh again.

"Of course! You are a very handsome man," Nico says, and this time it's Marti punching him in the shoulder.

Lucas gets to his feet. His throat feels like it's made of sand and he feels sure that he's running a fever. Drinking all that and smoking what must've been at least half a joint back at the apartment had been an idiotic idea. He says, in French, "Weren't we going to go to—to go to that other place for the countdown?" He coughs, then grasps at a final solid handhold as he feels himself pitching into depthless waters, "Yann?"

"Nah, bro, c'mon," Yann slurs happily. "These guys're great." He switches back to English. "So what about this: vampire or werewolf?"

Jonas lets out a peal of merriment. "Werewolf _, absolutely_." The others jeer. "Some of us are hairy!"

" _Hérisson_ ," Eliott begins, wrapping one hand around Lucas's elbow.

It is so stupid and childish and dumb, but it's his only card left. "I don't—I don't feel so good." He coughs, at first for show, then not. Eliott rises, lithe as a cat, cradles Lucas's cheeks between cool palms. "Oh _hérisson_ , you're all warm." A hand smooths Lucas's hair back from his forehead and he feels his lower lip wobble. It's only fifty percent theatrics, at this point.

"Yeah," Lucas croaks. "But it's almost midnight."

Eliott turns to the others, but before he says anything, Even, sitting very straight and looking like an actual twenty-three-year-old man for the first time that evening, tips his chin at Lucas. "He's clearly feeling like shit." Jonas makes a concurring noise, brows low.

Isak circles to their side of the table. "Do you want an ibuprofen?" He proffers a blister pack of small white tablets. Marti half-rises and slides his untouched glass of water toward Lucas. Basile, Yann, and Arthur form a protective huddle as Lucas, nodding his thanks, downs a tablet.

"You'd better head back," Yann says, touching Lucas's shoulder.

"But—"

"It's fine, bro, we've got some nice company here. Just let Eliott take you home already."

"And go the fuck to bed."

"But not like _that_ ," Basile says with gravity. "Save _that_ for tomorrow." Yann swipes at him, scoffing. The Italians, who seem to be following all this more closely than the Norwegians, chuckle. Still, both Even and Isak give Lucas kindly smiles and firm, steel-jingling hugs as he apologizes for the hasty departure.

"We hope you feel better soon," Even says, straightening Isak's lopsided crown of burnished O-rings looped with foliage. "You can find us on Insta." He points his thumb over his shoulder at Jonas. "And Mr. Werewolf here also."

"Also us," Marti and Nico say together as they sandwich Lucas between them to deliver him a synchronized air-kiss. "A total pleasure to meet you," Nico adds in very good French, twinkling. "Visit us in Rome sometime. Happy to show you all the good things."

As Eliott shuts the door behind them, Lucas hears, amidst loud tittering, Basile saying, excitedly, "Bah, well, we think Eliott is a _real_ vampire," and Arthur, interrupting, "Do you see how he _sparkles_ when you look at him, like just now?"

"Do you think they'll be—"Lucas coughs—"okay?"

"Paranoid _hérisson_ ," Eliott chuckles, rubbing Lucas's back. The larger room is rowdier than before; the lights are off and a large disco ball that they hadn't previously noticed throws rainbows across the ceiling dildos. But the darkness is good cover as they cleave through the crowds. "They seem really nice, all of them."

"I dunno," Lucas says as they descend the stairs. "Nico seemed a little crazy? Ah, sorry, I mean—"

"I think the nice term is _intense_." Eliott smiles. "Didn't they feel kind of like—family, or something? In just an hour?"

"Yeah. But we definitely haven't met them before, right?" He lets Eliott help him into his coat because he feels tired and there's no one in the corridor to see and it's reassuring to feel Eliott's hands sliding over his arms and shoulders.

Eliott shakes his head. "Never. Now let's get you home, _babe_." He stoops to look directly into Lucas's eyes as he secures his scarf over his collar. "You like that word in English, don't you."

"I—"

Eliott licks his bottom lip with glee. "I know you're not _that_ sick." He lets his tongue linger on an incisor. " _Babe_."

 

 **January 1|** **Sunday, 02:01**

Lucas really does not want to be as horribly, horribly aroused as he is, so he rummages mentally for the least sexy thing he can think of. " _Chéri_ , did you ever take your second dose today?" He sniffles, and Eliott, beaming, reaches to dab at his nose with a tissue.

"I did, yes, before we left for the club." Eliott casts the tissue into the wastebasket and gives a content little grunt as he tugs once more at a knot behind Lucas's neck. "Now look again. I think it's pretty much like the picture now. Isn't it _lucky_ that I thought to bring it home from school last month along with that fun leftover paint?"

Eliott scoots from between him and the mirror that hangs inside the open dresser door. Lucas blinks at his reflection: he sits with legs dangling over the edge of the bed, arms fastened behind him and legs tied together from hip to knee by a quarter-inch cotton rope that stands out shockingly white against the black t-shirt and boxer briefs he is still wearing under its coils. At least this time the briefs are a nice, flattering pair in dark red and not the ones with those fucking ice cream cones. He swallows noisily. The ropes cross the crease of his groin, pulling the fabric of the briefs tight; the tautness is growing in spite of himself.

"Well, _hérisson_? Don't you think?" Eliott clicks his phone to life and waves the diagrams he's been consulting, downloaded from God knows where, at Lucas, looking like a child who has just won free candy at the carnival. "Pretty good for a first-timer, no? And don't you like how I did a little improvising here?" He strokes Lucas's belly, where the ropes criss-cross exactly like the _Esclave Parfait_ 's black leather straps.

Lucas bobs his head once, not trusting himself to speak.

"Bah, but what's wrong?" Eliott crouches beside the bed. That damn collar is still locked around his throat, throwing reflected light from the bedside lamp in flickering lozenges across the ceiling. "Did I do that last one too tight? Should we take your temperature again?"

"No," Lucas says, trying to find somewhere to look that won't goad his hard-on to ever greater heights, and settles on the lampshade. Unfortunately, even its off-white tassels, lightly quivering, are setting him off. He resigns himself to shutting his eyes for a moment. "But we should go to bed, probably."

Eliott raises an eyebrow after a moment's silence. "Should we?" He eases himself onto the bed, bumps Lucas just hard enough that both of them tip onto the mattress. "Are you sure, _babe_?" He reaches for Lucas's briefs, smiling slowly as Lucas breathes harder, but lets his fingers hover without touching. When Lucas utters an involuntary whine, Eliott's entire face crinkles in delight. "What was that?"

"Please—" Lucas struggles, but on top of Eliott's careful knots, he's also now being pressed into the mattress by Eliott himself, whose arousal is, like Lucas's, very much in evidence. Lucas musters all his will to speak again. "We shouldn't. I'm a—a fucking _invalid_."

"Mm-hmm," Eliott drawls. His collar is a band of cold against Lucas's solar plexus, even through the t-shirt. "Strange that you would've let me tie you up, then." He fastens his teeth around Lucas's nipple, sucking through the cotton, and looks gratified at the whimper he extracts.

"I dunno—dunno," Lucas mumbles.

"It's not nice to lie," Eliott applies himself to Lucas's other nipple avidly. "I saw your eyes at the Atelier, _babe_. And at the club." Both of Eliott's hands drag at the hem of Lucas's t-shirt; it barely shifts, firmly cinched against the skin beneath by the rope. "Practically—" Eliott pulls harder, huffing with satisfaction when a seam gives way and he is able to lay bare Lucas's belly to just past the navel. "Practically fucking our _nice_ foreign friends with your—" he bends to kiss Lucas's lids—"adorable little _hérisson_ eyes, mm?"

Lucas can only pant and shake his head in response.

"And it's not nice to leave your poor, sad, crazy man to sit with one single, solitary, pathetic light beer while you do shots of shitty tequila with your buddies, is it?" Eliott adds his teeth to the campaign against Lucas's t-shirt, and manages to expand the rip all the way up to Lucas's armpit. He drags the bunched fabric roughly aside under the ropes, blowing hot little puffs against Lucas's flesh, which, sensitized by the friction, brings him fully hard.

Lucas presses his ankles against the side of the mattress, trying to find purchase, fruitlessly. "Ah, no," he gasps as Eliott grips him through the damp front of his briefs; Eliott grins while grinding the heel of his hand mercilessly against Lucas's frenulum.

"No?"

"Don't—don't tear those too," Lucas almost sounds steady, of which he is inordinately proud. "They're nice."

Eliott raises both eyebrows. " I see. They are. Yes, pretty nice." He wedges two fingers under the waistband of the briefs—it is a tight fit—and snaps the elastic hard against Lucas's belly, snickering as Lucas bucks like he's been shocked. "Well, then you can just keep them on for this, how's that?" His hand settles more firmly around Lucas's cock, begins to pump it with deliberate strokes that ease slowly up toward the head and slide tight and fast toward the balls.

Lucas makes a final effort to not disintegrate into a jumble of pitiful noises and sweaty, quaking limbs, but when Eliott brings the pad of a thumb to give his cockhead an extra hard rub at the end of each stroke, Lucas abandons himself to the unbearable sensation of Eliott: the tight, frictive fist into which he is desperately thrusting and the slightly callused palm and fingers that skates over his nipples, tugging them, that wraps hot and close around his neck, then flicks his earlobe; the voracious mouth scattering bites all over his arms, his bared chest, his sides; even the eyelashes brushing mothlike in the wake of the wetly sucking lips.

He groans into Eliott's mouth, around Eliott's flicking tongue: "I'm gonna—" then shudders as Eliott launches himself backward onto his feet and takes two steps away. The rings on the collar jingle. The rest of Lucas's sentence dissolves into a pathetic groan.

"You can't come yet." Through his swimming vision, Lucas sees Eliott raise his forefinger and shake it. "Beg. I want you to beg for it like you made me beg." He leans over Lucas until the hard rise in his black jeans pushes against Lucas's cheek. Lucas opens his mouth and turns toward the denim, tonguing it, frantic. "Tell me if anyone else has ever made you feel this way."

"No—God, no," Lucas's hips twist from side to side almost of their own accord; he arches and arches, straining toward Eliott's touch. "No one. No one! You're my first!" He feels tears starting and his nose, on cue, beginning to run, but he no longer cares. "Please—please—please. Touch me. Touch me now."

He cries out in satisfaction when Eliott, with tender eyes and strong hands, obliges.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave a kudos or even a comment svp.


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